because you can't catch smoke with your bare hands
by Appointment
Summary: Scorpius has never done anything so bloody wrong, until he makes an even worse mistake. Terrible summary. Scorpius/Lucy, Scorpius/Rose.


because you can't catch smoke with your bare hands

_lucy/scorpius_

* * *

><p><strong>"i'm going back to five-oh-five, whether it's a seven hour flight or a forty five minute drive."<strong>

* * *

><p>It's a cool spring morning when she first finds out. Swallows make nests in the thick bushes by the river and the dirt dries up, leaving no trace of the long winter. He's wearing white and blue Muggle trainers, and sits on the highest branch of a willow tree. He looks so happy, and stares out into the distance.<p>

Time flies by so quickly; they had just finished school.

"Hey, Lucy!" he calls, climbing down the tree.

She runs over, elation in her steps, how childish they feel.

"Rose said yes."

"You …" She knows where this is going.

"We'll be married next summer."

She bloody loves him, she thought he loved her.

He doesn't.

* * *

><p>It's a few months later, and instead of loving her, he smears kohl under her eyes and runs his long fingers through her hair and tells her how pretty she looks. She tells him that he reminds her of something, but she just can't remember what. He wraps his arms around her and pushes her against a quixotic blue bedroom wall, and she has never felt <em>any more electrified, any more beautiful, any more alive. <em>

More importantly, less guilty.

It could be worse. It could be better.

For now, the in-between of hurried rendezvous' and hickeys that were renamed bruises was good enough.

* * *

><p><strong>"in my imagination you're waiting lying on your side, with your hands between your thighs."<strong>

* * *

><p>Rose comments how Lucy's got a bit of a spring in her step these days, and she goes out all the time. She says how Scorp is just so busy working at the Ministry; he's away for nights and nights. <em>Rose is stupid.<em>

Lucy loves Rose. She knows that what she's doing is wrong, oh-so-wrong, but she doesn't care. _Wrong is exciting_.

* * *

><p><em>It's late,<em> late at night, and she's at a hotel that just screams _flapper girl_ and _grunge_ in twin tongues.

The rain is restless and daring, coating silence with the stingy gloss of sordid weather. Her lips are _Heartbreak Red_ as it says on the tube of rouge, and they're getting redder from sipping a too-strawberry daiquiri. Her legs are crossed modestly, opposed to the slinky skirt that just barely covers creamy thighs. A knock on the door does not push Lucy from her seat, but she merely turns her head so long red curls cascade down bare shoulders, and there he is.

Slim face of pallor, and a halo of silvery blonde hair. His eyes are deep gray, with the impression of taciturnity but the depth of a million oceans placed on one another. Rose Weasley was the first to conquer that castle.

But Lucy doesn't feel bad about walking right into the throne room.

"Snuck away, have you?" she says with noiseless confidence, and she bats black-coated eyelashes. He nods, looking impassively lusty. God, was Scorpius a paradox.

"Bloody cats and dogs outside." he says, barely a time for the weather chat. Lucy smiles at him and he comes to sit next to her on uncomfortable hotel seating. She kicks her legs up and they fall over his lap. He sighs and his breath smells like posh vodka and Muggle chewing gum.

"Light me." she says to him, holding up a cigarette. With the flick of his wand, smoke begins to drift from the circular glow. She takes a long, long pull and from between two cherry red lips comes a star of smoke.

"You're brilliant."

"You're only saying that so you can fuck me."

A quiet laugh escapes from behind his impish smirk, and as discreet as it is, it almost drowns out the static of the Technicolor Muggle television.

"Lucy, Lucy, Lucy," he says, magicking a glass of brandy into his hand, "I don't need to use _lines_ to fuck you."

"Oh, Scorpius," she says, tossing the cigarette into the ashtray on the end table, "You know me much too well."

She tips her head back against the edge of the chaise longue, and she exhales deeply. The rain patters a little harder against windows covered by curtains, and the clock reads midnight exactly.

"Twelve o'clock," she murmurs, "Aren't you going to kiss me, Scorpius?"

He laughs between sips from his drink, his free hand pushes back blonde hair that's become a little too unruly.

"Maybe you should put on some more clothes, first."

She chuckles in a sultry way, addictive like liquid Prozac could be.

"Maybe you should take some of yours off."

"That doesn't sound like a bad idea actually." says Scorpius, and he loves how the youngest daughter of _rule-upholding Percy Weasley _could be so _unconditionally mischievous_.

* * *

><p><strong>"stop and wait a sec. oh when you look at me like that my darling, what did you expect? i'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck, or i did last time i checked."<strong>

* * *

><p>Everything is coloured in a harsh shade of venomous red and rose-tint has become old news. Lipstick has become Lucy's crimson narcotic, she just loves to leave her mark.<p>

"She's in the other room, Scorp," she says breathlessly, because she's just been ensnared into another brutal game of tonsil hockey and _l'autre femme _is in the other room, meters away from a hopeless _tête-à-tête_.

"But she's not in _this_ room." he says, and his eyes vivacity with a childish spirit she can't deny any longer.

"You're a horrible person," she whispers as he begins to nibble on her soft, white neck.

"And you love it." he says softly.

From the other room there's a quiet scuffle, and he pulls back autonomously and immediately, straightening up in a split second. He laughs at a joke that has never been told, and Lucy cannot help but admire how good of an actor he is.

"Lucy was just telling me about how Teddy charmed Percy's hair bright blue." he said, stifling an artificial chuckle.

Rose smiles wholeheartedly and rambles on about something pertaining to the topic, Lucy zones out. The conversation is imperceptible when she smells his lovely, musky scent of sweat and vanilla musk – something usually too feminine, but when it mixes with cigarette smoke and brandy, it's the pair of an opiate.

"I'm going to go help Uncle Harry with dinner." she says, and skips off, so obliviously. She's out of earshot and past thin walls, and Scorpius walks past Lucy with sure fluidity.

"I need you." he whispers almost inaudibly and it's a miracle she catches it. She turns to look at him, and he passes her the most indiscernible wink before he joins the rest of the clan in the sitting room.

She knows that she doesn't belong, but it's okay to color outside the lines.

* * *

><p><strong>"not shy of the spark, a knife twists at the thought that i might fall short of the mark."<strong>

* * *

><p>"What'd you tell her this time, Scorp?" she asks playfully, and he slips her a wink.<p>

"Auror mission."

The cigarette hangs sloppily from his lips, and fumes escape from his nose and out the sides of his lips.

"Brilliant."

His eyes lay on hers, and he watches how her plump, red lips wrap around the small burning stick. Only she could look so pretty when smoking, pristine and priceless like a marble figurine.

"I know I am," he says, a frisky smile playing on his lips. "You don't need to butter me up to get in my pants, love."

She giggles and takes a pull, then a few more puffs and she throws the stick away, the last ghost of vapour escaping her rouge lips with hush.

He leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He watches her closely, legs straight, her head against his knee. Long, slender fingers run through her bright ginger waves, moving locks away from her face and soothing the wilder ones. A tiny gasp escapes her lips, and her blue eyes close, like a cap on two little blue pills.

"Tired?" he asks.

"Not yet," she says, and a grin shines through her words. "I haven't made my way into the bed yet."

His cigarette hangs between his pointer and middle finger, and it's placed between his lips.

With his last drag, he tosses the smouldering stick. Smoke is just barely leaving his mouth, and he's leaning down to meet her gaze on level. She pulls him into a kiss, smoke and fumes in her mouth, and she inhales with pleasure, as if he's the cigarette, but Merlin knows that he's more than just a cigarette.

_He's bigger and better than the whole bloody pack. __  
><em>  
>He feels her smile pressing against his chapping lips, and smoke dance between their lips. The floral scent of her hair and the smoke create a chemical reaction; <em>something like arousal.<em>

And they don't realise it, but they've actually fallen over. He's on the floor, she's on top of him, and he feels life flowing through his veins.

His hands are gripping the ends of her shirt, sliding fabric upwards to let her skin exhale. The shirt just barely grazes his nose, the flowery, sugary, intoxicating scent of her lingered up on him for seconds, and her cherry red lips leave stains on his pale chest. His eyes close, and he exhales a breath he's been holding.

Her hands run up and down him, touches so gentle it feels like her fingertips are whispering secrets to his skin.

"What is it – " she says between mild kisses on his chest, " – that makes you so bloody lovely?"

She sits upright, and she flips her hair backwards glibly, she looks wild.

It is quiet.

"I love you," she murmurs, and it escapes her lips before she has the chance to grab it and stuff it back down her throat.

"I know you do."

He's using her for a type of affection he doesn't quite receive from anyone else.

_Undying_.

She knows this well, but she also knows it's not love.

* * *

><p><strong>"frightened by the bite, though it's no harsher than the bark. the middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start."<strong>

* * *

><p>There's lipstick on the rim of the glass, and she's angry.<p>

It's somewhat alcohol induced. Then again, what isn't?

"I don't want to sneak around anymore," she says, and she drinks again. He frowns.

"I don't know, Lucy. I just don't know."

"Scorpius, I'm tired of being one of those girls." He moves to respond but she's quick with her tongue.

"End of story." she says simply, and he collapses into an armchair. She leans down and kisses his cheek, ruffles his hair.

He's silent till she's almost to the door. She is already pulling out a cigarette to light up.

"You can't just walk away," he says bitterly, "You can't, and you know it."

"I don't fucking care anymore, Scorpius." she says, without turning. He can hear a smile in her voice, but an acrimonious, emotionless smile, one of a nervous lost child.

"You do."

"I already told you, I'm not going to be _that girl_." she says, turning to him. "I'm not going to be the girl who goes home, washes off her makeup, piles her jewellery and falls asleep thinking of you."

Her eyes are cold lakes in winter. "Because that would require me throwing my bloody self-respect on that pile of baubles. I'm finished."

She turns on her heel and leaves, and not another word of his own passes through her ears.

He gets ready for bed an hour after, and a memory of _Heartbreak Red_ remains on his cheek. He sighs and doesn't bother washing up, collapsing on his bed and covered by the scent of tobacco and perfume.

He falls asleep thinking of her.

* * *

><p><strong>"but i crumble completely when you cry, it seems like once again you've had to greet me with goodbye. i'm always just about to go and spoil the surprise, take my hands off of your eyes too soon."<strong>

* * *

><p><em>God, how stupid was she?<em>

She let him return, and she was she with he. She was _that girl_, with _that guy_, in that _blundering scenario._

Smoke swirls around the dark room, dim light from many candles was left to be the only source of illumination. He watches smoke pirouette with the chandelier above him, and he wants to catch it.

He forgets it's impossible to catch smoke.

"You're still awake." he hears from behind him, and he remembers the warm body next to him. She rubs her eyes.

"Mhmm." he replies, quite quietly. The world is bleary, and he discards the festering remains of a cigarette in a clear ashtray. He begins to rustle around beside her.

"What are you doing?" she asks quietly.

"I'm going home."

She sits up, hurt, and the blanket falls and rumples at her stomach.

"Stay."

"I can't."

He pulls on his jeans and looks back at her, takes in the way the light from the window catches on her bare skin. He leans down to pick us his t-shirt and heads towards the door. When he looks back, the darkness hides the pain written on her face. In its place, he sees an inexpressive look. The night itself creates its own misunderstanding, stashing emotion and long red hair for itself.

"I'll write tomorrow," he says, hand on the doorknob. "Or something."  
>"Can I see you tomorrow?" she asks with stupid hopefulness<p>

He knows it too.

"No."

And the front door closes lightly, with a bang left to itself.

When he gets home he has a shower, making it as cold as he could stand, hoping that the bite of the water would remind him that this was reality.

And he had fucked it all up.

* * *

><p><strong>"i'm going back to five-oh-five, whether it's a seven hour flight or a forty five minute drive. in my imagination your lying on your side, with your hands between your thighs."<strong>

* * *

><p>A deep brown screech owl flies in through his window on a lazy morning, and she wants him to meet her at the outlandish looking teashop past Hogwarts.<p>

"Come see me in Hogsmeade, I'm visiting the Longbottoms. We'll meet at a quarter past six, Madam Puddifoots."

The note is laced with her perfume. So he agrees.

When he opens the big doors, he sees her, dressed in something more conservative than he's used to, personally. Sunlight glints off bright red hair.

He meets her at the table, and sits down across from her, and a almost sludge-like coffee appears in front of him. He takes a sip of the over-sugared drink, and wonders.

"What's this about?"

"I told her."

His silver eyes widen in disbelief and he can't clutch what he's hearing, and at the same time, it's gripped much too tightly in his hand.

"You're barking."

"I'm not."

"You are."

She shakes her head furiously.

"No, I'm not bloody barking," she says angrily this time, "I told Rose."

"What the fuck?" he says in disbelief, and just a little too loudly. People stare, he doesn't mind. "Why?"

"Because she loves you and she deserves much better than this."

"But – "

"'But' nothing," she says, and she looks down into her already drained cup guiltily, "You knew this was the right thing as much as I did, Scorp."

Suddenly he's got a bad taste in his mouth.

"I love her."

"Obviously not enough."

"You love me."

"I'm not going to repeat myself."

She leaves a few gold Galleons on the lace covered table, and walks away from him. It had been the same line, the same lie. It had been hidden in shadows, deep in closets behind skeletons.

He didn't love Rose, he never did. He loved Lucy, more than anything in the world.

He doesn't remember what happens for the rest of the day, nothing stands out particularly. He Apparates home with flimsy effort, and splinches off the nail of his pinky finger. He's slapped and yelled at, he's walked out on, and left alone in a boring house with boring things to do. He thinks he remembers the kiss of a girl, the punch of a boy and the burn of more Firewhiskey.

He most definitely remembers the fact that Lucy Weasley found inadequacies in him.

_She never loved him._

* * *

><p><strong>"i'm going back to five-oh-five, whether it's a seven hour flight or a forty five minute drive."<strong>

* * *

><p>He takes a pull on a cigarette the morning after, and smoke looms above him like hateful cirrus clouds, shaped like grimaces.<p>

He's sitting in a dirty armchair, not having moved since the previous evening.

Actually, no. He's actually been sitting there for around five hours, no sleep.

The road outside is empty, city hollow and littered with advertisements for things people don't need and broomstick coupons. He stares at a photo on the fireplace mantel, where happy faces seem millions of universes away, deep under oceans he'll never swim in.

Another, final pull on the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers, and smoke wafts upwards, spreading the two overhanging clouds of stale air like the Red Sea. He seeks warmth from kisses and the scent of hydrangeas from cotton t-shirts, and reaches to grasp the smoke and pull it down to him, but then he remembers that you can't catch smoke.

But he has a better chance of holding it in his arms than he does doing so with Lucy Weasley.

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN: Holy, longest thing I've ever written all at once. Personally, I like it though. ****Inspired by Sleeping Song by The Secret Handshake, and 505 by Arctic Monkeys. I don't own Harry Potter or 505 (as it is part of the fic). ****I'm not a big NextGen pro, but it turned out reasonable. Horribly unbeta'd though. Written for LilyLuna232's Next Generation Stories Challenge, R&R. **


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